Sweeney Todd: A Character Study
by DasMervin
Summary: This is a collection of drabbles to ficlets, all from Sweeney Todd's POV, studying his character and his motivations. Will be updated weekly. Rated M because some deal with sex.
1. Bright Red Day

_**Sweeney Todd: A Character Study**_

_**Author's Note:**__ Hello, all. This is going to be a collection of very short works, all a minimum of 100 words, a maximum of 1000 words, all from Sweeney Todd's POV, just written to study his character and his motivations and how he reacts to the other characters involved with the story in preparation for NaNoWriMo this year. Sometimes, just little tiny drabbles or triple-drabbles or small ficlets make their way into my head, and while they aren't long enough for a story of their own, they're still important, because I often put the stories into my own personal fanon for __Sweeney Todd__. I will try to update weekly, but sometimes, I just run out of ideas. Just be patient—I will eventually think something up and pen it to paper and post._

_And for anybody who is wondering, I took down "Naïve" to work on it separately and expand it into a novel-length fanfic this November. It'll be back up as soon as I am finished with it. Thank you._

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**Title: Bright Red Day**

**Word Count: 100**

**Rating: PG for mentioned violence.**

**Summary: Sweeney Todd contemplates the sunrise.**

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_Bright Red Day_

Sometimes, Sweeney knew it was going to be a bad day. There was always something that told him that it would be—today was one of those days. He always watched the sunrise, loving the way red slashed through the murky black of night, staining the sky crimson.

But the sunrise hadn't been red today. It had been orange. Ugly, bright orange, only tiny little tendrils of red showing briefly before being banished by that horrible _orange_.

Well, he'd answer. He flicked his wrist, the razor in his hand opening instantly. He'd make his own red—and his own sunrise.


	2. Making Conversation

**Title: Making Conversation**

**Word Count: 300**

**Rating: PG for mentions of violence.**

**Summary: Mrs. Lovett was talking. Talking, talking, talking—it seemed she would never stop.**

**Author's Notes: I originally had this posted as its own story, but I took it down to make it part of this little series. For all of those who have already seen this, my apologies. For all of those who have not, I hope you enjoy.**

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_Making Conversation_

Mrs. Lovett was talking. Talking, talking, talking—it seemed she would never stop. However, he knew from experience that she invariably would stop jabbering and leave, so he didn't give into the urge he so often got to silence her with an easy flick of his wrist.

He didn't even know what she was talking about—expenditures, perhaps, or maybe about her new dress. He didn't care one way or the other. She took care of the finances, and he couldn't give shite if she wandered about the place in nothing but her corset, so why she felt the need to come tell him about it sometimes baffled him.

He stared down at the razor in his hand—she was his favorite. He loved her, truly loved her, for she was Lucy. She had soft eyes, and a small, knowing smile. Her hair twisted and curled all the way around the handle, obscuring all but her face and her hand, and when he moved it towards the light of the candle, the silver reflected gold and she became even more of his wife. He murdered indiscriminately with her, unconsciously moving his fingers over her eyes, because Lucy had always been rather faint when it came to blood—it wouldn't do to have her see such things.

Fingers on his shoulder—he jolted, gripping the razor tightly and turning to stare at Mrs. Lovett.

"What?"

She sighed irritably through her nose. "I _said_ I'm plannin' for us to go out tomorrow—out for a bit'o fresh air. It'll do Toby good, s'well as you. Jus' us three. So don' plan to open shop tomorrow." She finally rose to leave, kissing his cheek. "G'night, Mister T. Try'n sleep tonight, will you?"

He didn't hear her leave—he only heard her long-awaited silence.


	3. A Woman's Figure

**Title: A Woman's Figure**

**Word Count: 300**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Sweeney Todd notices Mrs. Lovett.**

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_A Woman's Figure_

One day, after drinking a good four shots of gin, Sweeney Todd noticed Mrs. Lovett's figure.

He played his fingers around the rim of his half-full glass, staring forward at nothing in particular, mind numb from drinking, tuning out most of whatever Mrs. Lovett was nattering on about. She strode into his line of sight, and suddenly, he became aware that Mrs. Lovett was a very lovely woman.

Her corset did what a corset was supposed to do—it accentuated her hips beautifully and gave her an impressive bust. She was not one for hiding her cleavage, either, spending most of her time waving it in his general direction. He'd just never noticed it until now.

His eyes traveled down her entire front, and when she turned to fuss over his night table and bed and wound up bent half-over tugging his sheets up, he could not help but stare at her shapely buttocks. His gaze wandered lower, to where her dress was hiking up a little and exposing her striped socks and laced up high-heeled shoes. Then it traveled back up when she abruptly sat up and whirled around, hands on her hips, breasts jiggling within the confines of their corset and bodice, the ripped red sharply contrasting to the ragged black of her dress.

The moment was over as soon as it came—his mind lingered momentarily upon Mrs. Lovett's admittedly fine figure. And then he remembered his Lucy—his modest, demure Lucy, who wore dresses of the palest pink, whose neckline never dipped below a point to expose her cleavage to anybody, who rarely needed a corset to make her figure look attractive.

He tipped back his fifth shot of gin. Mrs. Lovett was not Lucy. And no amount of gin would ever make him forget it.


	4. Sunshine and Daisies

**Title: Sunshine and Daisies**

**Author: dasmervin**

**Word Count: 400**

**Rating: G**

**Summary: Mrs. Lovett brings Sweeney some flowers.**

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Sunshine and Daisies

Sweeney Todd looked up from polishing the fifth razor when Mrs. Lovett bustled into his shop, bursting with her usual cheery greetings and carrying a vase full of flowers.

"Good mornin', dearie!" she chirruped. "I brought some flowers to make this dreary room look a little better." She set the vase onto his night table, sprucing up the flowers a bit, and stepped back to observe her handiwork. "That looks much better, don't you think?"

"Mm." He opened up the sixth razor and began polishing it, readying it for the day's work—he always used the sixth and seventh razors when doing work.

He barely heard Mrs. Lovett sigh. "Mister T, you could at least _look_ at them," she groused.

He glanced up, irritated. "Look at what?" he asked, turning back to his razor, noting that it was now gleaming fit to rival the sun.

"Honestly!" Mrs. Lovett huffed. She marched over to him and stood directly in front of him, reaching forward and stilling his hand. "The _flowers_, Mister T. The _daisies_."

That got his attention.

_Daisies_…

He looked over to his night table, and there, standing out against the gloom of his domain, was a vase full of bright, cheery daisies, their petals of the purest white and their centers a sunny yellow.

_("I—I'm sorry they're just daisies—" He unconsciously scuffed at the ground with his foot, nervous and feeling entirely inadequate.)_

"Don't you think they look nice, Mister T? I was considering buying some roses, but you make enough red on your own." Mrs. Lovett tittered at her own cleverness.

_("Mr. Barker—they're beautiful!" she exclaimed, clutching the tiny bundle of flowers.)_

Sweeney slowly moved across the room to the vase, reaching out and touching the blossoms briefly.

_("I think they're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, Mr. Barker." A soft smile graced her beautiful features as she smelled the tiny flowers.)_

"Yes…" he murmured.

Daisies. She'd loved the daisies.

"Well, finally," Mrs. Lovett said. She began to leave the room, scooping up some of his dirty clothes while she was at it.

"Daffodils."

Mrs. Lovett froze at the door, her hand on the doorknob, before turning to face him, looking quite surprised. "Pardon?"

"Next time, buy daffodils," he said gruffly.

Mrs. Lovett beamed at him, nodding, and finally left the room.

She may have loved daisies, but daffodils had always been her favorite.


	5. The Pain of Pleasure

**Title: The Pain of Pleasure**

**Word Count: 500**

**Rating: R for sexuality**

**Summary: After it's all said and done, Sweeney Todd reflects on the why.**

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The Pain of Pleasure

Sweeney Todd stared down at Mrs. Lovett, shaking, sweating, panting—he was still inside her, and still hard, even though he'd already spilled inside of her.

_How many more, Todd? How many more until you're satisfied?_

He pulled out and away from her, rocking back onto his knees and tugging at his trousers. He turned away, sitting on the edge of the cot he called his bed, slowly buttoning his trousers as he heard Mrs. Lovett slipping her own dress back into place. He wasn't surprised to feel her hands slide onto his shoulders and around his chest as she hugged him, her breath fluttering his hair as she nuzzled him.

Why did he keep letting her do this, and why did he keep succumbing to her desires? Why did he keep fucking her? He always felt so sick after it was done, and was so beaten down by her insistence that he didn't even shove her away anymore when she wanted to paw at him after it was said and done.

He knew what he was looking for. He was looking for that devastating flashpoint once again—not that sick, twisted euphoria that filled him whenever he came inside Mrs. Lovett, that euphoria that only filled him if he thought of his razors plunging deep inside the throat of his next customer and his blood spurting hotly onto his hands even as he thrust deep into Mrs. Lovett…

Where was that feeling? And why was he looking for it with Mrs. Lovett? Part of him knew he'd never find it with her. There was only one woman in the whole of the world who could've made him feel that way—made him feel _human_, made him feel _whole_.

And she was dead.

He stared forward at the wall, Mrs. Lovett stroking his arms and his chest through his shirt. She was murmuring little things in his ear, but he didn't hear them.

She'd always been so silent when it was over. She'd just looked at him, her brown eyes soft and full of love.

He extricated himself from Mrs. Lovett's grip, standing and making his way over to his razors.

He smiled fondly down at him, and the glinted lovingly back. He barely heard Mrs. Lovett rise from his bed and come to stand beside him as she straightened her hair and her clothes.

_They_ made him happy. As happy as he could be—wasn't it after busy days like today that he willingly, even enthusiastically gave into Mrs. Lovett when she came upstairs, flushed and pulling at his trousers? It wasn't Mrs. Lovett who helped him along that path to finding what he'd had with Lucy—it was his razors. Only they could ever understand how he felt—they'd waited so long for him, and remained just as he'd remembered them.

He shrugged away Mrs. Lovett's hand. She apparently finally got his message, turned, and slowly left the room, closing the door quietly behind her as she left.


	6. Fleeting

**Title: Fleeting**

**Word Count: 700**

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Mrs. Lovett pops the question.**

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Fleeting

He'd been thinking of Judge Turpin when she posed the question—thinking of what he was going to do once he had that bastard back in his chair, back in his _clutches_…

"What did your Lucy look like?"

Anger flared inside him like a burst of fire—how _dare_ she?! She knew not to ask him about his wife, she _knew_ not to say things about his Lucy—!

And then it died. Because he suddenly discovered that no answer was forthcoming to her question.

Lucy…

He strained his memory, struggling—Lucy…he loved her, still loved her, would never stop loving her…but where was she? He realized he hadn't looked at her picture in over a week, something he'd done several times a day before he'd started exacting his revenge upon society.

_Lucy…Lucy!_

"You can't really remember, can you?"

He could, he _knew_ he could—it just…oh God, Lucy, why couldn't he remember his Lucy?

A flash of gold—_yes_.

"She had yellow hair," he murmured, remembering the swirl of her hair when she'd turn during dancing. But surely that wasn't all? What color had her eyes been? Surely he could remember her eyes…green…but no…

He felt Mrs. Lovett come to stand behind him. _Why couldn't he remember his Lucy?_

"You've got to leave this all behind you, love."

No, he would _not_ leave Lucy behind, she was why he'd escaped, why he'd suffered through hell to get back, why he _murdered_…wasn't she? Why he murdered…but how could he kill for a woman whose eyes he couldn't even remember?

"She's gone."

It was a whisper. But it echoed like kettledrums in his head, resonating and repeating itself over and over again.

_She's gone…_

He knew she was gone. She was gone from _him_. Only a few weeks ago she'd been so fresh in his mind—he'd been able to recall the slightest detail, details he'd been dreaming about for so long. How long had it been since he'd had a dream about his Lucy? He dreamed about razors, these days—razors, the dead, and blood. Never Lucy.

He couldn't even remember what she'd worn that day in the flower market…

"Life is for the alive, my dear."

Was he even alive? He'd declared himself dead that first day he'd returned to London, hadn't he? Was he alive? What right did he have to be alive when his Lucy was…

But Sweeney Todd _was_ alive—Sweeney Todd murdered indiscriminately, and felt even more alive with each passing throat. Sweeney Todd couldn't even remember his own wife. Sweeney Todd _had_ no wife…she was gone…

"We could have a life, us two. Maybe not like I dreamed. Maybe not like you remember. But we could get by."

Her voice is wistful, hopeful.

What _did_ he remember? What _was_ his old life like? He'd been happy—he knew that. But Lucy—he couldn't remember Lucy…

He did not love Mrs. Lovett. He knew what she tried so often—to replace his Lucy. And for so long, he'd resented her for it—Lucy was his wife, his only love, and he would never betray her like that.

But Lucy was gone. Gone from the world, gone from him—simply _gone_. Only that flash of yellow remained, and it was as fleeting as the morning sunrise. There was nothing left for him except his razors, blood, and…

He turned. Mrs. Lovett was staring at him, and he noticed she looked quite modest today, her cleavage kept hidden—like Lucy's always was. She was dressed demurely, red hair done up in her usual style, and her face held hope as she awaited his response. He stared back at her, unsure of what to say…

What _could_ he say? He knew what she was proposing. She was—well, _proposing_.

He needed time. He needed time to think, to just sit and _think_…he didn't love her, and never would, but…

_We could get by…_

Wasn't that what he'd been doing? Getting by? Wasn't that all he had left? All he could do now was get by with what he had.

And all he had was his razors and—

Thundering footsteps on the stairs.

And the moment burst like a delicate bubble.


	7. The Seventh One

**Title: The Seventh One**

**Word Count: 100**

**Rating: PG for mentions of violence**

**Summary: Sweeney Todd and his seventh razor.**

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The Seventh One

She always shone a bit brighter than the others.

He tried to use all of them equally. It wasn't good to just use one over and over again—it would become dull, and besides, the others would be jealous. But he just couldn't help it—the seventh one, the one with the lady covering herself with swirling, endless locks of hair…she was so beautiful. And so much more.

She would viciously cut down all in her path. Her hunger for blood could not be sated. She tore through throats and devoured the souls of the dead.

And he loved her.


	8. The Kiss

**Title: The Kiss**

**Word Count: 400**

**Rating: R for violence**

**Summary: Sweeney Todd shares a kiss with his beloved.**

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The Kiss

He slowly dragged the blade up and down the strop, listening to the blade sing as he slid it up and down the leather. He stared forward at his next customer—Mrs. Lovett had given him the wink and the nudge when the stranger had climbed the stairs, and he knew what that meant. The razor was trembling in excitement, in anticipation.

Or perhaps it was just him.

He wasn't listening to what the man was saying. What did it matter what he was talking about? The end result was going to be the same, no matter what he said. He waited, waited for the right moment—it would come any moment…

And there it was. A pause in the conversation.

He stepped forward and sliced the blade through the air. It _hmmed_ beautifully before hitting the man's throat. His razor sliced through flesh as easy as it sliced through the air, and within a single section, the man was grasping futilely at his spurting throat, gurgling and choking on his own blood.

Savagely grinning, he stomped on the foot pedal—the chair tilted back, just as it always did, and down his victim went, sliding down the chute and landing on the floor below two stories with a wet smack. He watched as the trapdoor snapped back up with a creak, and suddenly, the floor looked as it did just a moment before. Aside from the blood on the seat of the chair and the droplets of red on the floor, no one would be the wiser.

He moved to clean up the blood, but paused. His razor was still bloody, the red rubies dripping down the blade slowly.

And she was beautiful…

He didn't know why he did it. He just knew that suddenly, he'd pulled the blade to his lips and kissed it.

Hot copper exploded onto his tongue. The sensation nearly made him weak in the knees—oh God, how had he come to love the taste of blood…?

He managed to stagger backwards and sit down on his bed, the thin mattress creaking. It had been dizzying, the way tasting the blood of his latest victim was. He licked his lips—more blood. The temptation to lick the whole blade clean flashed into his mind, but he resisted.

He slowly cleaned the blade, watching the red give way to shining silver.

The taste still lingered.


	9. First Time

**Title: First Time**

**Word Count: 500**

**Rating: R for gruesome images**

**Summary: Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett's first time.**

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First Time

"Over here, love. Just bring it over here," Mrs. Lovett directed, the butcher's block clean and awaiting meat. And Sweeney Todd was going to provide.

He stared briefly down at the corpse at his feet before bending down and hoisting Pirelli's body up and over his shoulder, grunting slightly; he was much heavier than he looked. He felt blood oozing down his back as the man's slit throat jostled against him, and strode over to the butcher's table, where Mrs. Lovett waited with a meat cleaver, hacksaw, and several knives. He slammed the body down on the table, his glassy eyes staring upward at the ceiling. Sweeney shifted, uncomfortable in the butcher's apron she'd insisted he wear.

"Help me get him out of his clothes," Mrs. Lovett ordered. He grimaced, but did as he was told, roughly taking off Pirelli's extravagant shirt and vest while Mrs. Lovett took care of his trousers and the rest, her cheeks a little pink.

"Put these over there," she said, shoving all of the gaudy clothes into his already full arms. He glared at her, and went over to the corner she'd pointed out and dumped his load. He turned to face her again; however, she was not looking at him—she was contemplating the meat on the slab before her, nibbling on her lower lip.

"Now, I don't quite remember how Albert used to butcher the pigs…" she murmured, but without hesitation, she grabbed the cleaver and began hacking away at his arm. She beckoned Sweeney soon after.

"I'll be needin' your help to get the arms an' legs off," she said, and not a moment after she said it, she handed him the hacksaw and told him to start sawing.

He moved over to stand beside her, setting the saw into place, and then began his grisly task, his fingers sinking into the cool flesh of his first victim—into the arm of the boy he'd hired fifteen years ago.

He made short work of the arm, sawing through tendons and bone and flesh, and soon found himself holding the limb in one hand and the saw in the other. He thrust the meat at Mrs. Lovett, who jumped a little and scowled at him as she took it and set it back down on the butcher's block.

"Can't do nothin' if we don't get the big bones out," she said. "I suppose we can leave in the little bones in the fingers…grinder'll take care of that."

He watched as she slit the arm from wrist all the way up to the top, forcing the flesh apart and cutting anything holding the long bones in place. She shoved the bloody things at him, and he took them in hand, irritated.

"Put them things over with the clothes," she said as she began hacking the arm into smaller pieces, readying them for the grinder.

As he dumped his second load, he silently hoped that this was not just his first, but his last time to help Mrs. Lovett in the bakehouse.

After all, he was a barber, not a butcher.


	10. The Kill

**Title: The Kill**

**Word Count: 500**

**Rating: R for violence and character death**

**Summary: Sweeney Todd contemplates Pirelli.**

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The Kill

Sweeney slammed the door shut behind the young boy, watching him skitter down the stairs excitedly. He was beginning to dread he'd never leave. He waited until the boy was out of sight before turning his attentions to his more immediate problem.

Pirelli was still alive in that trunk.

He set the cup of tea he'd poured for himself down on the stove, flexing his singed hand a little (the pain from grabbing the boiling teakettle had not quite set in; he knew Mrs. Lovett would fuss over him when she saw he'd burned himself), and slowly made his way over to the trunk, Pirelli's fingers sticking out over the lip.

Something had to be done about this.

He slowly lifted the lid of the trunk, the loud creaking echoing through his tiny domain. Pirelli's choked gasps reached his ears afterwards as he clung helplessly to the side of the trunk, trying and failing to pull himself up, blood smeared across his forehead and hands, standing out vividly against his ridiculously blue costume.

Sweeney _remembered_ him. Pirelli…he'd been a young boy by the name of Connor. Back when Sweeney had been Benjamin Barker, and had made quite a name for himself, he'd been approached by Connor in his home and place of business—he'd wanted to apprentice under him. And Benjamin Barker had gladly allowed Connor into his home, giving him the menial tasks of sweeping up hair, organizing his workspace, and observing his work, intending to gradually advance to the more difficult tasks and eventually allowing him to shave the customers. When he'd last seen the boy, he'd been barely his own height, lean and lanky, with a head covered in a mop of black curls and a mind full of ambitions and dreams of being the greatest barber in London. He'd been impressed to find somebody who loved the trade as much as he did, but less than impressed with what lengths the boy's ambitions tended to take him. He'd been a little dishonest, but Lucy (his throat clicked a little), Lucy had always insisted they forgive him, for he was just a boy, with no family, and perhaps with their guidance, they could help him become something honest and hard working. Connor always loved Sweeney's razors as well—would always ask to be allowed to polish them, and had only been allowed once…the day before—

And now, before him, lay Adolpho Pirelli. Selling piss and ink to passersby, boasting of his mediocre talents and claiming a title that he himself had once owned as Benjamin Barker—the best barber of London.

Sweeney Todd was not impressed. Connor had done nothing with himself. He'd been free to do as he wanted, been allowed to retain his freedom, had not endured fifteen years in an Australian penal colony, and _this_ was all he'd made of himself. A two-bit con who attempted to blackmail his betters.

He was worthless. He would be treated as such.

Sweeney reached for his razor.


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